


my make believing (while i'm wide awake)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25362610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: It's time - for what, Jemma doesn't know yet.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102





	my make believing (while i'm wide awake)

**Author's Note:**

> Week twenty-nine and I am really regretting this challenge, y'all. I feel like it's been at least eight weeks since I posted something I was actually proud of. We are in quantity-over-quality land here.
> 
> But I hope you enjoy anyway. Thanks for reading <3

“Okay, time to go.”

Grant’s voice reaches the lounge before he does, and Jemma—exhausted past the point of all reason—wastes a good thirty seconds blinking around in confusion before she spots him coming around the outside of the briefing room.

It’s a touch embarrassing…but less so than it would be if Skye and Fitz weren’t equally slow to react.

“Go?” Fitz doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Go where?”

“Nowhere,” Skye says firmly. “I refuse.”

“I don’t believe it works that way,” Jemma tells her.

“Well, it _should_ ,” Skye insists. “The medics only released Coulson an _hour_ ago! We _can’t_ have another mission already. I won’t allow it.”

The reasoning is sound, and Jemma wishes it _did_ work that way—if only for how completely unsuited they are for any sort of field work at the moment. The three of them are only in the lounge because they’re literally too tired to get up and walk to their bunks.

And the Bus is an _airplane_. Their bunks are not terribly far.

“We don’t have a mission,” Grant says, “and I wasn’t talking to you.” He stops beside Jemma’s chair, giving the back of it a little shake. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Where are we going?” she asks. He’s put his jacket back on since last she saw him, which suggests the answer isn’t _bed_ —and as that’s the only place she’s interested in visiting at the moment, she doesn’t bother to stand.

“Word just came down from HQ,” he says. “With me and Coulson both on medical leave, the team is officially stood down. So you and I—” he tugs her easily to her feet, ignoring her noise of protest—“are going on vacation.”

“Vaca—you can’t go on _vacation_!” Fitz sputters.

“Of course not,” Jemma agrees at once. “My work doesn’t end just because the missions do! I have several very important experiments in progress, and I can’t— _Grant_!”

As is his wont, Grant reacts to her lack of cooperation by simply moving her himself. Even as she squeaks in protest, he turns her and begins steering her towards her bunk. It’s overbearing and rude and one of these days, she is _absolutely_ going to take him to task for it.

Just as soon as she stops enjoying the warm surety of his grip on her shoulders and the easy strength behind his manhandling. Any moment now.

In the meantime, Skye is, of course, more than happy to complain on her behalf. “Hey! No kidnapping! Haven’t we already had enough of that this week?”

It would perhaps be more effective if she’d at least bothered to sit up to voice her protest, but it’s the thought that counts, surely.

Not that Grant pays it any mind either way. Instead, he leans in very close to Jemma—close enough to murmur, “It’s time,” in her ear.

Time?

Oh! It’s _time_!

A flood of adrenaline washes away her exhaustion, leaving her heart racing and her head light. Her mouth goes very, very dry.

“Right then.” She’s absently grateful for Grant’s hands, which have gone from propelling her along to supporting her on her suddenly unsteady feet. “I’ll just pack a bag, shall I?”

Her attempt to sound casual is, as usual, a dismal failure. Fortunately, as is also usual, Fitz and Skye completely misinterpret her change in tone. Behind them, Fitz fakes gagging as Skye groans loudly.

“For the sake of our friendship—and my _sanity_ —please never tell me what Ward just said.”

Jemma’s saved from the need to find a good response to that (which is fortunate, as she isn’t sure there _is_ one; she can hardly tell Skye Grant didn’t say anything dirty without inviting further question) by virtue of the fact that she and Grant have reached her bunk.

“What sort of weather should I expect?” she asks him.

He squeezes her shoulders once and then releases her. “Warm. Be sure to bring that bikini you got in Sydney.”

The lecherous tone he takes for the order is one he often uses when he wants to get her back up—to offend her out of her nerves—but it stands no chance of doing so today.

It’s _time_. She was beginning to think this day would never come, and now that it has…

Adrenaline aside, she’s so tired she can barely see straight! How does he expect her to deceive _anyone_ in this condition?

Perhaps she voices the question in her worry, or perhaps he simply knows her well enough to guess the path of her thoughts. Either way, he at once abandons lechery in favor of reassurance.

“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the way there,” he promises. “It’s a two hour drive to the nearest base, followed by a long flight.”

That’s something, at least. All the sleep in the world won’t do anything for her horribly lacking skill in deception, but at least she’ll be well-rested.

Thus comforted, she fetches her warm weather go bag (as opposed to her cold weather, medical emergency, or take-me-seriously-I’m-a-SHIELD-agent go bags, all of which were prepared months ago at Grant’s direction) from beneath her bunk. She opens it to add her tablet, the novel she’s halfway through, and—after a moment’s hesitation—the bikini, and just like that, she’s ready to go.

If only she could find the courage to pick the bag up.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Grant promises quietly. His arms wrap across her collarbones, hugging her to his chest. She can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her back, a soothing counterpoint to her own still-rapid pulse. “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay? You got this.”

She doesn’t even know what _this_ is.

But she can’t remind him of that. This is a SHIELD plane and the walls have ears; really, what little he’s said is risky enough. All she can do is lean back into his embrace and accept the sweet kiss he presses to her temple.

“Come on,” he says. “Car’s waiting.”

Adrenaline can only do so much after how long she’s been awake. With no immediate danger at hand, the rush fades, and she’s left to all but sleepwalk through their brief goodbyes to Fitz, Skye, and May. It’s a miracle she doesn’t tumble down the stairs on their way to the SUV.

“Okay,” Grant says as they buckle their seatbelts. “You can sleep in just a second, sweetheart, but first…”

He trails off as he backs down the cargo ramp. The airfield is deserted—Hand and her goons are long gone, off to deposit Raina in some well-deserved prison—and as they drive away from the Bus, the empty dark seems to envelop them.

“First?” she prompts.

Grant reaches into the center console and pulls out what Jemma recognizes, with a strange mixture of excitement and unease, as one of Fitz’s anti-eavesdropping devices. It will jam any signal—SHIELD or otherwise—within a 200 meter radius of the car.

“First,” he says, setting the device firmly on the dashboard, “it’s about time I brought you up to speed.”

A jolt of excitement cuts through her exhaustion. She sits up a little straighter. “ _Past_ time, I should say.”

It’s been six months since she agreed to this whole farce, and she doesn’t know any more now than she did then. Stunned by the request—to fake a romantic relationship with a complete stranger, who also happened to be a new teammate, of all things!—and more than a little flattered to be trusted with it, she didn’t ask nearly as many questions as she should have.

(In truth, it’s more than a bit embarrassing. She is a _scientist_ ; questions are her bread and butter, curiosity her driving force. There’s no excuse for letting a stunning set of cheekbones distract her from information gathering.)

“Yeah, probably,” Grant agrees with a wry grin. “But you know the drill.”

“Risk of eavesdroppers, top secret mission, traitors within SHIELD, yes, yes,” Jemma dismisses. Coulson’s unforgivably brief explanation was _very_ dramatic. “You’ve taken care of those factors, so fill me in.”

Grin fading, Grant stares out at the road in front of them. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “We’re investigating Agent John Garrett. He’s a Level Eight and an old friend of Coulson’s—they trained under Fury together.”

“And you have a personal connection to him,” she says. That was one bit of information she gathered when she was first briefed, though—sensitive to Grant’s clear misery—she didn’t press for details at the time.

“Yeah.” He cracks his neck. “John’s the one who recruited me. Plucked me right out of military school, said I had raw talent he’d like to see refined. He put me on the fast track for the Ops Academy and…here I am.”

Thinking of her own recruiter (Agent Carillo, who still emails her twice a week and who hugged the breath out of her when she told him she’d be graduating from the Academy a full three years early) brings tears to Jemma’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching across to grip Grant’s thigh. “I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you.”

“If the job was easy,” he starts…only to stop, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I’m not gonna lie, it sucks.” One hand falls away from the steering wheel to cover hers on his thigh, squeezes briefly, and then returns to the wheel. “But we’ve wandered from the point, which is that he’s dirty.”

That much she knew—but it’s _all_ she knows. “Dirty in what way?”

“We’re not sure.” Grant shakes his head. “John runs a crew of specialists. Sometimes they go on missions together, sometimes he acts a field coordinator, sometimes it’s a mix of both. It’s a pretty typical Ops arrangement. Only thing is, there’ve been some…” He drums his fingers on the wheel. “Irregularities.”

His throat works silently for a moment. Jemma waits, allowing him the time he needs to collect his thoughts.

“Life expectancy for a specialist’s pretty short,” he says finally. “We all know that going in—it’s just the nature of the job. So a bunch of agents dying under John’s watch didn’t raise any flags for anyone. His crew’s mortality rate isn’t higher than any other’s.”

The easy, matter-of-fact way in which he discusses the _mortality rate_ of people in his profession sends a chill down Jemma’s spine. Were she not worried he might take it wrong, she’d remove her hand from his thigh for fear her horror might tell in her grip; as it is, it takes conscious effort to remain relaxed.

SHIELD scientists are often accused of being sheltered. Jemma had no idea until she entered the field just how true those accusations were.

“So what was irregular?” she asks. Calmly, she hopes.

“What came next,” he says. “When they’re not on team jobs, John’s crew is broken into pairs—one specialist on point, and one to serve as back-up. That’s typical. Thing is, if you look at John’s crew’s history, there’s a pattern of misbehavior there. One partner dies in the field, and the surviving partner starts crossing lines.”

That…doesn’t sound particularly suspicious to Jemma. Didn’t she cross lines herself just a few months ago when Fitz and Grant were in danger? She lied to and assaulted a superior officer, stole classified SHIELD data, _and_ shared said stolen classified data with a SHIELD consultant on restricted duty—all because Grant and Fitz’s lives were more important to her than her moral code. She can well imagine how much further she might have gone had either one of them actually _died_.

Even as she puzzles over it, Grant’s hand falls from the steering wheel to cover hers once more. This time, instead of letting go immediately, he laces their fingers and leaves their now clasped hands in place.

It’s difficult to read his expression in the dim glow of the dash display, but she doesn’t think it’s a good one. Concerned, she squeezes his hand.

“I was on John’s crew until last year,” he says, and clears his throat. “My partner died—a sniper in Milan.”

Whether he means his partner was a sniper or was killed by one, Jemma isn’t sure and would never ask. All she can do is cover their clasped hands with her free one. If he weren’t driving, she would hug him; as it is, that will have to wait until they stop.

“I’m so sorry, Grant,” she says.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat again. “Anyway, after—I crossed a lot of lines. Too many. I—” He stops, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I eventually realized I was out of control and put in for some leave. I just thought I needed to clear my head, get some space.” His hand flexes in hers. “That’s when I got called in to see Fury.”

_That_ shocks her. “ _Director_ Fury?”

She just catches the corner of his mouth ticking up—but the smile, if it can be called such, is gone just as fast as it appeared.

“That’s the one,” he says. “Turns out, Fury’d been suspicious for a while that something was rotten in John’s crew. Specialists go through a lot of psych evals before we’re let loose, and we’re meant to be able to handle losing our partners.”

Something about the way he says it—a sort of disparagement or disdain in his words, as though grief is _below_ specialists—as though reacting to the death of a partner is a sign of _weakness_ —pricks at Jemma’s heart. Before she can even begin to think what to say, however, he’s continuing.

“I didn’t realize it at the time,” he says. “But when Fury questioned me, I could see—all those lines I crossed after Dan’s death? John pushed me over them.” He cracks his neck. “He was manipulating me, and using Dan’s death to do it.”

It’s just as well he doesn’t give her a chance to react to that. She has _no idea_ what to say to such a horrifying concept.

“Once you look at all those lines John’s specialists have crossed as more than isolated incidents,” he continues, “it’s obvious there’s a pattern there. Witnesses dead before they can give statements, criminals killed instead of interrogated, evidence destroyed…” Grant shakes his head. “He’s using us to cover _something_ up—we just don’t know what.”

Never in her life has Jemma wanted to hug someone as desperately as she wants to hug Grant now. Unfortunately, they’re in a moving vehicle—and with the mission so urgent, Grant isn’t likely to pull over just for some cuddling.

She settles for lacing her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder in the closest she can get to a sideways embrace. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, as she has to lean over the center console to manage it, but it’s bearable.

If she thought she could offer verbal comfort to go with it, she’d do so at once. But she knows Grant; empty words won’t do him any good.

Instead, she remains focused on the mission. “So how did this lead to us pretending to date?”

He takes a deep breath.

“John’s the closest thing I have to a father,” he says—plainly, simply, as though it isn’t bound to break her heart to know how well he loves a man he suspects of murdering his partner to manipulate him. She hugs his arm a bit tighter, but doesn’t interrupt. “Bringing a girlfriend ‘home’ to meet him is the perfect excuse to pay a nice, long visit.”

“Long enough to investigate him,” she surmises. _Why her_ is obvious; due to the mobile nature of their team, the number of women he could conceivably date over the last few months is very limited. Skye was an unexpected addition to the team, joining after Jemma and Grant’s ‘relationship’ had already been decided, and May… “I suppose I’m far less likely to raise suspicion than the Cavalry.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Grant gives a little half-shrug; moving just enough to communicate his intent without disturbing her position against his shoulder.

(Jemma’s heart may or may not skip a beat at this show of consideration.)

“So what are you expe—” Giving her head something to rest against might have been a mistake; her exhaustion is slowly taking over, and she has to stifle a yawn mid-word. “—sorry, expecting of me? Not much, I hope.”

One fake relationship is not enough to make a convincing liar out of her, after all.

“Not much,” he says, “don’t worry. Just keeping playing infatuated and adorable; you’ll be enough to keep him distracted while I do some digging.”

“Adorable?” she echoes.

“Shouldn’t be hard.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s pretty much your natural state.”

The tease surprises a laugh out of her, and a little bit of the tension goes out of Grant’s frame.

“Seriously,” he says. “You’re just my way in the door, okay? All you need to do is keep up the act. I’ll take care of all the investigation.”

Comforting, but… “I imagine a potentially dirty field operative with secrets to hide will be harder to fool than our unsuspecting teammates.”

“You’d be surprised.” He pats her knee. “We’re comfortable with each other physically and any hesitation on your part’ll just read as nerves. John won’t suspect a thing—and even if he does, he won’t hurt you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“Of course.” Emboldened by the teasing or the need to comfort him or both, she presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I never doubted it for a moment.”

It’s the truth. She’s worried about giving them away and ruining the mission, of being caught in a lie, of making a complete fool of herself—but she isn’t at all afraid for her safety. She knows she can trust Grant to protect her, no matter what.

And because she thinks he needs to hear it as much as she needs to say it after learning the mission’s heartbreaking backstory, she adds, “I always know I’m safe with you.”

The brief kiss he presses to her head is soft. His voice when he says, “Good,” is even softer.

(It’s only too bad he won’t be able to protect her from the broken heart she’s sure to suffer when the investigation is complete and this charade of a relationship comes to an end. In the meantime, she’ll guiltily allow herself to enjoy every moment of it, danger or no.)


End file.
